Here in Santiago there is no wind.
My mother calls to find out what is different, expecting
stories of stony houses with stone-lined paths
leading up to them: stone villages with stone names.
Outside my window: Dunkin Donuts,
Blockbuster Video, and the essential
Kentucky Fried Chicken. What can I tell her?
The world is not what we imagined.
Last night I dreamed two people talking,
one trying to explain something to the other:
Ojala. I hope. Espero que. The next day, she calls again,
her heart in her mouth: she's lost something.
What is it like? she wants to know.
Expectant, as though learning another language
we might wake early, knowing
exactly what it is we want to say.